


The Taming of the Fly

by Quasar



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alien Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 19:55:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1700582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasar/pseuds/Quasar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney wants to regain the Colonel's trust, so he's going to help him get over that little mutating-into-a-bug problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Taming of the Fly

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted Spring 2006, but either didn't get posted to AO3 or fell by the wayside somehow.
> 
> Written for [slashfest](http://community.livejournal.com/slashfest/). I owe a debt of inspiration to Seperis's [Shed Your Skin](http://seperis.illuminatedtext.com/sga/shedyourskin.html) and Martha Wilson's [Transition Point](http://www.ltljverse.com/watergate/stories/transition.htm). I was thinking of doing something like this before I found the request for it, so the story sort of ran away with me.

There was a guard outside the door to the cell room. _Well, of course there is!_ Rodney chided himself nervously. He gave the guard a nod. "How's he, uh . . . well. Has he been, ah, quiet?"

The guard considered this as if it were a deep question. "Made some noise when we put him in there at first."

No one had liked the idea of putting Sheppard in a cell, but Carson insisted they couldn't keep him sedated into unconsciousness for the weeks he would need to return to normal, and the viral inhibitor would work against the corrective retrovirus as well as the first one. Restraints or confinement seemed to be the only options left. Since Carson had said this while sporting a badly bruised jaw and treating a nurse for a broken wrist, it was hard to argue with him. Rodney had tried even so, but nobody really listened to him except when it involved blowing things up or preventing things from blowing up.

Rodney lifted his chin. "So, I've, uh, come to visit him."

The guard nodded calmly. "Ms. Emmagen's been by a couple of times."

"She has?"

"Sings to him, I think."

Rodney blinked. "Does he like it?"

The guard shrugged. "Couldn't say. She seems to think so."

"Oh." Rodney looked down at his feet, at the floor, at the laptop under his arm. Apparently his idea wasn't very original, or even very likely to help anything. Teyla was much better at this sort of thing -- at dealing with convalescents, or people of any kind, really -- than he was. If _she_ couldn't get a reaction from Sheppard, what did Rodney hope to accomplish?

He really just wanted to show Sheppard that he could be trusted, that he could contribute more than his technological brilliance -- not that that wasn't plenty! -- and that they could be friends again. Maybe this wasn't the best way to do it; if Sheppard couldn't remember language or basic common sense like _don't beat up the nice man who controls your supply of painkillers_ , he wasn't going to remember who Rodney was, or that they'd argued, or what it was about, or why Rodney should be forgiven.

But it was the principle of the thing, after all. Duranda -- and Olesia, and the Aurora -- had brought it home to Rodney that he had to work on being a better friend, had to learn to pay back kindness with more of the same, even if he wasn't very good at it. He'd felt pretty awful thinking that Sheppard was going to die with their friendship still on rocky ground, and he'd wanted a chance to say something, to find some words that would make a difference. And now here was his chance.

It wouldn't be completely wasted, he supposed. If Sheppard really was completely non-verbal, Rodney could use this opportunity to practice saying nice -- or at least not wholly contemptuous -- things without putting his foot in his mouth every other sentence. By the time Sheppard understood English again, Rodney could be a glib master of the smooth apology and the gracious compliment.

He squared his shoulders. "Could I, uh . . . ?" He waved at the door.

"Sure." The guard checked his life-signs detector, then swiped a hand across the door sensor. "There's a chair in the corner, if you're going to stay a while."

"Yes, ah, thank you." Rodney squinted in the dim blue-green lighting around the cell. They must have been designed especially for holding Wraith; at least, they were certainly lit that way.

There was no one in the cell, just a heap of blankets too small to conceal a person.

Rodney waved the closing door to a stop. "Wait, where is he? Did he escape or something?"

The guard glanced at his detector again, then pointed toward the ceiling. There was a shadow up there, clinging to the bars that formed the top of the cell. "He likes it up there."

"Oh. Right." Rodney had no idea how Sheppard was able to hold on without triggering the force field. "Maybe he'd come down if he had a proper bed or something? That doesn't look very comfortable."

The guard gave him a sidelong look, half-pitying. "He tore the bed frame apart and tried to use the pieces as weapons."

"Oh. I see." Rodney looked a little doubtfully at the pile of blankets and decided there wasn't much harm that could be done with them. On the other side of a force field.

"Call if you need anything, Dr. McKay." The guard waved the door shut.

Rodney stepped up close to the bars and looked at the dark figure suspended near the ceiling. "So, uh. Sheppard. Colonel. I thought you might like, uh, some company. We've all missed you." He tried to laugh, but it wasn't very convincing. "You know, the scientists miss having you distract them from their work, and Teyla misses beating you with sticks, and Ronon misses outrunning you."

The shadow didn't move. 

"And I thought, you know, maybe you were missing us, too. So I came by to, uh, to spend a little time with you. Catch you up on all the news. But, I suppose Teyla's been doing that, has she?"

No reaction.

"Right. So, uh, I'll just sit here and, uh, read my email, and I can tell you what's been going on in the science division. Kavanagh's asking to come back, did you know that? And Caldwell has been changing all the, uh -- well, Elizabeth's keeping him in line, more or less." In the corner, Rodney found a folding chair apparently stolen from the mess and brought it forward so he could sit and use his laptop while he talked.

He read some of his emails out loud, with editorial comments. He talked about the jockeying for credit among the biologists and the medical group following Sheppard's successful -- or expected to be successful -- treatment. Then he got distracted by Optican's latest creative but ultimately impractical flight of fancy. By the time he'd sent her a reply detailing all the ways in which she was pathetically mistaken, half an hour had passed and he'd almost forgotten Sheppard was there.

The shadow was gone.

Rodney looked around frantically and finally located Sheppard on the bars of the cage almost directly above him. Sheppard seemed to be watching Rodney, untroubled by his head-down position on the bars. He was wearing white infirmary scrubs, with nothing on his feet -- which seemed to be gripping the bars in a way that Rodney couldn't quite make out from this angle.

"That's, uh, really cool, you know," Rodney ventured. "Sort of like Spiderman climbing the walls. Maybe you'd like it if I made you a web-slinger?"

No reaction.

"No, of course not, silly of me, you wouldn't want to be any more like, like them than you already, uh. Yes. Well." _Them_ being the Iratus bugs or the Wraith or both; Sheppard hated them about equally. "I suppose if you could choose a superhero, you would be Batman? Since, you know. Since bats eat bugs? Not that you'd want to eat them of course, but natural enemies and all that, right? Batman was always my favorite, anyway. You'd need a lot of gadgets, of course, but I could take care of that side of it . . . and Batman can -- well, not really fly, but sort of glide. I'm sure you'd like that part."

Had Sheppard moved at the mention of flying? Rodney wasn't sure.

"Anyway." Rodney swallowed nervously. He really had no idea what to say to Sheppard. "Oh, I know! I could play some music for you, since, uh, since Teyla thought you enjoyed that. I have lots of music to choose from, a wide variety of classical and alternative -- well, hmm. I suppose your taste probably doesn't overlap with mine very much. And of course the speakers on this laptop aren't very good. I could bring in my other -- well, no, why don't I just see if you like it first?"

Rodney selected his entire music library -- including some stuff he almost never listened to, inherited over the years from former girlfriends and lab assistants and Jeannie -- and put it on random. First up was one of the Japanese things Miko had given him, which Rodney had never warmed to. Next was a Bach quartet, pleasant and ornamental but not exactly moving. The third selection made Rodney sit up, though: the Adagietto from Mahler's Fifth Symphony came up. It was sadly diminished by the poor speakers, but still beautiful.

"This is one of the most passionate pieces of music ever written," Rodney said thoughtfully. "It was a love letter from Mahler to his fiancee." He lifted a hand to follow the swell of the music, and sighed. "It's sad; you can hear how the musical themes are kept apart, just like the two lovers. But so sure and, and enduring, even so. They must have had great, ah, trust in each other." He swallowed and ducked his head. "Anyway. I'll get back to my emails. Let me know if any of the music strikes your fancy."

When he glanced up, he thought Sheppard had moved down a rung or two.

The music played on while Rodney went over Optican's idea again. Although her development was flawed, the underlying premise might be applicable in other ways. While he concentrated, the music flowed from Mahler to some Middle-Eastern thing (ex-girlfriend -- the relationship hadn't lasted long, but that had more to do with her expectations of romance than her taste in music) to Stan Rogers (Jeannie) to Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet -- apparently they couldn't get away from the love music. Sheppard responded with an odd noise to the wailing of the Egyptian music, almost as if he were trying to answer or imitate the polytonic intervals, but when Rodney repeated the selection, Sheppard remained silent. It wasn't until David Bowie's Space Oddity (girlfriend? Or was that left over from Rodney's teenage years?) came on that Sheppard really reacted. He swarmed down the bars until he was level with Rodney's head and bobbed up and down, keening and chittering to the music.

Rodney drew back at first, but eventually realized Sheppard wasn't upset or enraged by the music; he was singing along, after a fashion. Familiar was bound to be good, wasn't it? Rodney combed through his collection for anything he thought Sheppard might recognize. More Bowie, a little bit of Talking Heads (former lab assistant). Would Sheppard know Laurie Anderson (girlfriend)? Yes, Rodney decided, he probably would. Three albums later, Sheppard was settled on the floor, staring intently through the bars at Rodney's laptop.

The battery was nearly dead, and Rodney was debating whether to go get a replacement or just take another stab at talking to Sheppard himself, when the door slid open. 

Sheppard disappeared. Rodney, starting to get the hang of this, looked upward. He could just make out a deeper patch of shadow in the dimmest corner of the ceiling.

"Oh," said Elizabeth from the doorway. She was carrying a tray from the mess. "Rodney. I didn't know you were here."

Rodney closed his laptop and stood up, suddenly embarrassed. "Yes, I was, ah . . . working. You know, I can do my work -- well, some of it anyway -- from here just as well as anywhere else. And I thought, ah, it might be . . . peaceful?"

Elizabeth knew how inept he was at small talk even with people who understood a significant fraction of his vocabulary, if not the concepts behind his words. Would she laugh at his attempts to befriend The Fly?

But although her mouth quirked oddly, Elizabeth only said, "That's very thoughtful of you, Rodney. I'm sure he appreciates the company."

"Well, ah, I'm not," said Rodney. "But it must be pretty boring in here, so maybe it helps to have something to listen to." He felt a momentary urge to boast that Sheppard had reacted to some of Rodney's music, where he hadn't to Teyla's singing. But a stronger impulse kept him quiet; it felt like a private thing, somehow.

"Something to listen to, that's exactly what I was thinking," said Elizabeth, and pointed her chin at the tray. Rodney saw a book there next to the dishes -- Sheppard's perennial copy of War and Peace, in fact. "I thought I could read to him while we have dinner."

"Dinner?" Rodney checked his watch. "How'd it get so late? Oh -- is that what they're serving in the mess?" He sniffed cautiously at the glop.

Elizabeth grimaced. "Carson says Colonel Sheppard can metabolize human food. But so far he doesn't seem very interested in it. I'm hoping that will change soon." She nodded to the door guard, who keyed off the force field and held his stunner at the ready while she slipped the tray through the bars. The force field was back up within a few seconds.

Rodney was suddenly sure that he didn't want to watch Sheppard eat, or whatever he might choose to do with the food. He'd had enough weirdness for the day. So he tucked the laptop under his arm, said vaguely, "Yes. So, dinner," and headed out the door.

* * *

The next day, Rodney brought a small set of detachable speakers, a spare laptop battery, and a disk with Sheppard's own MP3 collection on it. Much of it was familiar from his own youth, while some of the twangy ballads made him wince, but Sheppard seemed to like them. He crouched on his blanket, frog-like -- or should that be cricket-like? -- and crooned along with the music in a voice that was already noticeably less insectish. Sometimes he even succeeded in holding a tune for a minute or two. And when dinner came, Sheppard ate with his hands, making no more mess than Ronon on an average day.

* * *

The third day, Rodney found no guard waiting outside the cell room, and no Sheppard inside. When he called Ops in a panic, thinking that pursuit must already be in progress, he was told that Sheppard had been moved back to the infirmary.

"Aye, we've got him in isolation," said Carson when Rodney arrived. "He's conscious, but restrained. Fortunately, his strength seems to have come down to -- well, it's not back to normal, but at least within the range we can manage."

"But why did you bring him back here?" Rodney pressed. "Is something going wrong with the treatment?"

"No, that seems to be progressing steadily, if not quite as fast as we'd hoped. I'd estimate he'll be lucid enough to get out of here in a couple of weeks, and completely back to normal a week or two after that."

"So?" Rodney said.

"So, what?"

" _So,_ why did you bring him back to the infirmary if the treatment is going well?"

"Oh, that. We were afraid he'd do himself an injury."

Rodney blinked. "With what, a blanket? Was he going to eat it? Smother himself with it?" _Hang himself?_ he thought belatedly. Maybe it wasn't so implausible after all.

"No no, nothing like that. He was scratching himself."

"Scratching," said Rodney slowly, still envisioning modes of suicide by blanket. Even the Athosian fibers weren't _that_ bad -- irritating, yes, but hardly dangerous.

Carson leaned closer and murmured confidentially, "He's begun to moult, y'see."

"Oh! You mean the --" Rodney gestured at his own forearm.

"The scales and such that grew on his skin are starting to come off, and apparently it itches something fierce. He just won't let it alone, so we've got his hands tied down now. To be fair, I don't think he'll try to hurt anyone, not again. He seemed to recognize me, at least a little."

"Well." Rodney considered. "So could I see him, then? I've been, um, sitting with him -- sort of bonding, you know -- the past couple of days, and --"

"Oh aye, I'm sure he could use the distraction."

Rodney stepped into the isolation room cautiously. Sheppard was on the bed, staring at him with those eerie, slit-pupiled eyes.

"Uh, hi," said Rodney. "It's me. Again. I thought you might, ah, like the company."

Sheppard made an odd noise, sort of like the ones he made when 'singing' along to the music.

"Yes, music, I brought the music," Rodney said, busying himself with setting up his laptop. 

He didn't want to look straight at Sheppard, but it wasn't that he was disturbed by the blue scales or yellow eyes. Actually, he found those rather fascinating. But in the last two days, he'd gotten accustomed to looking at the colonel obliquely, from the corner of his eyes. Anytime Rodney looked directly at him, Sheppard would turn his face away or shift into a patch of shadow. He might be non-verbal, but he communicated clearly enough that he didn't like to be stared at.

Now he was tied to a bed in the middle of a brightly-lit room, with a blanket slipping off his legs and his scrubs twisted around awkwardly. The violation was wrong, almost obscene -- more so than the transformation itself, at least to Rodney's thinking. Sheppard's infection with the retrovirus had been an accident, unintentional and unforeseeable. His restraints were very much intentional, even if they were for his own good. It bothered Rodney. He wondered if Sheppard would be more comfortable with the lights turned down a little.

"Oh, hey!" Rodney snapped his fingers and Sheppard's eyes fixed on them at once. "I just thought of something. You'll like this. But I have to go get some stuff first." He stood up.

Sheppard made an odd noise -- not the 'singing' sound, but something more plaintive. A protest.

"Oh. I can leave the laptop here playing music, if you want." Rodney set the computer on the chair he had just vacated.

Sheppard's pale gaze went from Rodney to the chair and back. He made the protesting noise again.

"No, really, you're going to like this. I'll be back in just a few minutes, I promise." Rodney hurried out.

It took more than a few minutes; Rodney had to commandeer some equipment from people who didn't want to give it up, then he had to get it to the infirmary, and then he had to negotiate with the nurses about what power sources could be freed up. But finally he had the Ancient video screen hanging at the foot of Sheppard's bed and hooked up to the laptop, and he dimmed the room lights with a thought.

"Here we go," he said, stopping the music and bringing up another program. "See if you recognize anything about _this_."

Sheppard remained transfixed throughout the Boston College-Miami game. Near the end, as the famous 'Hail Mary' pass approached, Rodney noticed him starting to get excited. He tugged at his restraints and leaned forward in the bed. When the crowd screamed in appreciation of the successful pass, Sheppard whined along with them.

The recording ended, and Rodney brought the lights up just a little to see Sheppard staring at him beseechingly.

"What? You want to see it again? Well, sorry, I don't. We can watch something else. Let's see what else you have in your collection." Rodney went through the disks he'd grabbed from Sheppard's desk drawer, reading off the file names and checking for a reaction. He skipped over a disk that appeared to be porn; he didn't want to get into that with nurses possibly stopping in at any minute. Even if he was just a little curious about how Sheppard would react to it -- whether he would get aroused, and what arousal might look like in his current state. But not curious enough to experiment in the semi-public of the infirmary. Rodney could check out those files later in his own quarters.

He might have been imagining it, but Rodney thought there was a stronger interest in Sheppard's eyes when he named Back to the Future. He groaned, but queued up the file anyway. "Only the first movie, though. I'm not watching them butcher the principles of temporal dynamics the way they do in the second and third. Bad enough that Christopher Lloyd can't pronounce 'gigawatt' properly."

Sheppard made a curious low noise -- satisfaction? Agreement? -- as the movie started up. Rodney decided to take that as permission to continue pointing out the numerous flaws in the plot. Sheppard never made any noises that sounded like 'shut up,' anyway.

* * *

On the fourth day (evening, actually, since the afternoon had been taken up with practically rebuilding the desalination system from scratch while chewing out his subordinates for letting it get damaged), Rodney came prepared. He would have enjoyed watching something new -- he hadn't seen the latest Batman movie yet, and there were rumors around the science department about new episodes of Dr. Who -- but that would be something to do on his own time, or possibly with Sheppard after his recovery, if the man was still talking to Rodney by then. Right now, Sheppard needed to be reminded of the familiar, so Rodney had taken some guesses about what might be the colonel's old favorites. He had them loaded on his laptop and ready to go, but he hadn't finished getting the screen set up when Sheppard made a noise. Or actually, not a noise -- it sounded like speech. Like a word.

Rodney turned and frowned. "What was that?"

"Ow," said Sheppard distinctly.

Rodney moved closer to the bed, looking the patient over. "You're in pain?"

Sheppard blinked. "Ow."

"Right. I'll get Carson."

But Carson wasn't available, according to the nurse. When Rodney said that Sheppard was talking and in pain, the nurse rolled her eyes. "He's been doing that all day. He just wants to get out of the restraints."

Rodney stared at her. "You think he's lying? But why would he . . . Look, have you checked to make sure he isn't really in pain? I mean, how would you know? He's the one connected to his nervous system."

The nurse sighed and headed for the isolation room. "In fact, some of the Ancient medical devices can measure pain reliably on a standard system. But they don't seem to work very well in the Colonel's current state; Dr. Beckett tried." She reached the room and turned up the lights Rodney had dimmed in anticipation of the movie.

Sheppard flinched and squinted, his pupils narrowing to thin slits.

"Ow," said Rodney sympathetically.

The nurse shot him a dark look, then walked to the foot of Sheppard's bed with put her hands on her hips. "Well, Colonel? What seems to be the problem?"

"Ow," said Sheppard. His arms twisted at the restraints.

"I'm not going to let you go, so you can stop asking," said the nurse. But she did examine Sheppard quickly and gently, starting with his wrists. "Need to pee, huh?" she said, pressing on his abdomen.

Sheppard squirmed. "Ow."

The nurse stepped out of the room a moment and returned with one of the hand-held urinals that Rodney recognized unfondly from some of his own stays in the infirmary. "Uh," said Rodney, fading toward the door. This looked like something he didn't need to be present for.

But Sheppard scowled at the urinal and said distinctly, "No."

"Oh, hey!" said Rodney. "Looks like he does know what he's saying!" It seemed like a very appropriate response to him.

The nurse returned Sheppard's frown. "It's this or a catheter."

Sheppard's wrinkled blue lip protruded in a very un-bug-like pout. "No."

"You need a bed-pan instead? Or a diaper?"

"No." Sheppard pulled on the restraints again. "Ow."

"Look," said Rodney. "He seems, uh, sort of lucid. Why can't he just use the toilet? It's right here." Necessarily, the isolation area included a small bathroom in the corner.

The nurse sighed. "We tried that earlier, and he refused to go with someone accompanying him."

"So . . .?"

"Dr. Beckett doesn't want him left alone, even briefly, because he might hurt himself. Look." She pulled up the left sleeve of Sheppard's scrub shirt to reveal four parallel scratches on his forearm, scabbed over in a deep purple that stood out vividly from the mottled pale-blue skin. Below the wrist cuff, Sheppard's dark-clawed fingers twitched restlessly.

"Oh. Hey, maybe that's the pain he's complaining about?"

"He didn't react when I touched the arm," said the nurse. "I'm pretty sure he just needs to pee. Isn't that right, Colonel?"

Sheppard nodded. "Ow."

"So what'll it be? The urinal, or a catheter?"

Sheppard frowned at the urinal. Then he glanced toward the bathroom, looked at Rodney, and back at the bathroom.

Rodney gulped. "He can use the toilet if, uh, if someone accompanies him?"

The nurse gave him a doubtful look. "You have to watch closely. He'll try to scratch."

"Oh. Uh. I can do that, I guess." Rodney turned to Sheppard. "Is that what you want? For me to, uh, go with you?"

Sheppard nodded slowly.

The nurse gave an unhappy sigh. "Colonel, look at me." She held the yellow gaze firmly. "I need you to promise you won't hurt yourself. That means _no scratching._ Do you understand?"

Sheppard nodded.

"You promise?"

Another nod.

"All right. I'm going to close the isolation room door, so you know you can't escape -- but I'll be watching from the other side. If you try to hurt yourself, or if you give Dr. McKay any trouble, I'll call Security in here to stun you."

Rodney swallowed hard and lifted his chin. "We'll be fine," he said, wishing his voice wouldn't squeak.

The nurse gave him a nod and left, closing the airtight door behind her. Rodney was alone with the half-man, half-monster and the certainty of watching eyes.

"Right," he said tightly. "Here we go." He fumbled the blankets away from the bottom of the bed so he could get at the ankle restraints. Sheppard's feet, he saw, had grown long jointed claws where the toes should have been. They gripped at the bed like fingers, poking holes in the sheet and mattress. Rodney didn't comment as he ripped open the velcro from the paddled nylon webbing, but he had trouble taking his eyes away from the blue-cased digits.

The claws on Sheppard's hands were really the same, but Rodney hadn't quite realized it at first. The skin had thickened almost to a carapace, and Sheppard's fingers moved in pairs as if they had nearly fused together. When Rodney released Sheppard's left hand, it immediately moved up to the Colonel's face, touching uncertainly. Apparently the fingers still had some sensitivty despite their covering. Sheppard frowned as he traced the rows of spikes and bumps along his jaw.

"Okay!" said Rodney brightly, undoing the last strap. "All set. Let's do this." He waved at the door to the tiny bathroom.

Sheppard pushed the blankets down and climbed out of the bed slowly. Rodney couldn't be sure if he was just stiff or uncertain about the working of his changing body; his gait seemed normal enough, if hesitant.

Rodney glanced toward the camera he knew was monitoring the room. "I guess, uh, I guess I'd better go in with you." He shrugged apologetically. 

Sheppard ignored him and moved into the closet-sized room. He seemed captivated for a minute by his own appearance in the small mirror. Then he jerked his head aside sharply and faced the toilet instead.

Rodney had promised to keep an eye on Sheppard, but he didn't have to watch the personal stuff. He tried to keep his gaze fixed on the broad shoulders draped in white cotton. But his control wasn't perfect -- after all, guys check each other out all the time, right? -- and he caught a glimpse of an indigo-hued carapace before jerking his eyes upward again to fix on Sheppard's left ear. The ear was surprisingly unchanged, aside from a slight bluish tinge. In the last two years Rodney had developed a secret fondness for Sheppard's odd triangular ears, so he was in a position to know it looked pretty normal.

Sheppard finished his business -- that looked pretty normal also, Rodney noted in another uncontrolled glance -- and turned back to the mirror. He just stared for a long minute, and Rodney couldn't think of what to say.

"It's, uh, getting better?" He tried, lamely. "I mean, I'm sure those bumps aren't as prominent as they were a couple of days ago. And, uh --"

Sheppard's hands flashed up to his face with claws curled as if he meant to rip his own skin off.

"No!" Rodney blurted, and somehow found his own fingers tangled with Sheppard's. He hadn't even known he was reaching out. "Dont. You -- you promised," he said weakly. "And, um. Ow?" The powerful fingers were crushing his own.

Sheppard's hands eased their grip immediately, but he didn't let go. Instead, he turned their joined hands back and forth, studying them closely. After a moment, Rodney realized he was looking for scratches.

"No, uh, you didn't hurt me. It just pinched a little, that's all." Rodney looked up to find the yellow eyes gazing into his own, the pupils broadened into fat spindles. "It's okay," Rodney assured him.

"Oh . . . kay," said Sheppard slowly. He let Rodney's hands go. For a moment it looked as if he would try to scratch his face again, but at the last moment he turned his wrist and rubbed his cheek on the sleeve. 

Rodney knew it was just the scratching of an itch, but the gesture made him think of tears, and unaccountably his own eyes stung, too. "Come on," he said gruffly. "I've got some stuff lined up to watch. I think you'll like it. You remember Top Gun?"

Sheppard blinked, and his cheek twitched as if he were trying to remember how to smile. "Okay."

Rodney smiled hard enough for both of them.

They went back to the main room, and Sheppard climbed into the bed. Rodney was tempted to leave his restraints off, since the colonel obviously wasn't dangerous -- but even as he considered it, Sheppard idly raised a hand to rub at his chest. The sharp blue claws ripped right through the cotton shirt, and Sheppard looked down in surprise at the beads of bright red welling where he had scratched. "Ow?" he said in a sheepish tone, glancing obliquely at Rodney.

"Right, ow," Rodney agreed. "I guess it'll have to be the restraints again. I was wondering why Carson didn't just wrap your hands in gauze, or put gloves on you or something, but now I see that wouldn't work. Here, give me your arm."

The nurse reappeared in time to help Rodney with the last restraint. She cleaned the cut on his chest while glaring impartially at the two of them, even though Rodney tried to assure her it was an accident. At last she left the room, and Rodney was able to turn the lights down to a level that didn't make Sheppard squint.

Rodney supposed the colonel must have seen this movie multiple times, but it still kept his attention riveted. Rodney himself had only a vague memory of the plot, but he was alerted whenever a good scene was coming by Sheppard's intent reaction.

Despite the distraction, though, it was clear Sheppard was still troubled by the itching. He squirmed his body back and forth, rubbed his elbows against the sheets, and turned his head often to rub each cheek on the pillow. By the time the movie was over, Rodney couldn't take it anymore. He went to the nurse -- unfortunately, he noted, the shift hadn't changed yet -- and asked for something to ease the itch.

"I'm not sure what we can give him," she said, studying the shelves of supplies. "We tried analgesics, and that just seemed to make it worse -- possibly an allergic reaction. Dr. Beckett didn't even want to consider cortisone because of the possibility of immune suppression."

"What about just a hand lotion or something?" Rodney urged.

She snapped her fingers, startling him. "I know! There should be some around here somewhere . . . I know I saw it not long ago . . . there!" She handed Rodney a tall bottle that looked like it might hold shampoo or hair gel or something.

"What is it?"

"Mostly aloe gel, with some additional moisturizers. Simple, non-reactive, soothing for a wide variety of, um, skin types."

"It doesn't have any salt water in it?" Rodney squinted at the fine-print ingredients.

"It shouldn't. Why?"

"Those, um, those bugs hate the stuff. I think it actually hurts them. If Sheppard's skin is like that . . ."

"Test it," said the nurse. "Put a small amount on his neck and see if there's any inflammation."

Rodney snorted. "I don't know what that would look like, either," he muttered. But he supposed he'd be able to tell from Sheppard's reaction, so he didn't wait around for more suggestions.

Rodney spread a little of the thick, clear gel on Sheppard's neck -- the deep indigo part, where the Iratus bug had latched on to him over a year ago. "Does that hurt?"

Sheppard just blinked at him.

"Any itching, burning, stinging?"

Slowly, Sheppard shook his head.

"All right, let's give it a try, then. Where does it itch the most?"

Sheppard's yellow eyes roved across his body. "Ow," he said.

"Yes I know, ow, but where is it the worst?"

The spindle pupils just stared back at him.

"Fine. We'll start with your face, since that's easiest." And Rodney had thought it would be sort of impersonal, too, since the face was a part of the body that was always naked, always out there in public. But it turned out to be strangely intimate, brushing the slick gel across Sheppard's cheekbones and around his lips. His fingers trembled a little as he stroked the stuff onto Sheppard's closed eyelids.

Sheppard's neck was easier; the little blue nubs standing up from his skin made it seem less personal and more medical, somehow. At least until Rodney noticed the subtle iridescence tracing up the sides of Sheppard's neck, along the same track as the blue bumps. It fascinated him for a couple of minutes and he kept angling his head to try to get the light on it differently. Then he realized his face was only inches from Sheppard's -- and Sheppard was watching him intently, trustingly -- and he pulled away, embarrassed.

"Okay, uh . . ." Rodney could feel his cheeks burning. "To take off your shirt, I'll have to unstrap your wrists again. You promise, no scratching?"

Sheppard nodded, curling his hands into loose fists to keep the claws out of the way -- or maybe to hide them from view; Rodney wasn't sure which. 

With the white scrub top removed, Rodney could see a lot more of the infection's progress, which was both interesting and disturbing. Sheppard's right arm, where Ellia had grabbed him, was more changed than the left; a darker blue, with larger bumpy scales and a sort of carapace developing over his elbow like the armored knuckles that had grown into claws. The other center of infection was the bug scar on Sheppard's neck, also on the right side. The two areas had sort of blended together, so that Sheppard's whole shoulder was changed into something spiky and alien. Strange swirling patterns of iridescence alternating with bumps had sprung up across his chest, and the nipples were -- Rodney looked away, but it was too late -- hard cones of midnight blue.

Sheppard's left arm was a paler sky shade, and the scales were smaller there as well. Only a small patch of armor covered the back of this elbow, even though the hand looked almost as alien as the right one. Rodney started with this arm, rubbing the aloe gel over it in handfuls. 

Sheppard arched his neck back -- there was a pattern of shiny scales right over his adam's apple -- and made a sound deep in his throat. "Yum," he said.

Rodney paused. "'Yum?' Did you taste this stuff or something? I don't think it's supposed to be ingested."

Sheppard blinked at him, then glanced at Rodney's still hands. "Ow?"

"What, now I'm hurting you?"

Sheppard shook his head. "No ow." He started to reach for Rodney's hand, then curled his claws away and instead tried to worm his forearm back into Rodney's grip. "Yes."

"Ah. I think I see." Rodney squirted some more gunk out of the bottle and resumed spreading it around. "We don't really have any good words in the English language for 'That feels good,' do we? I mean, there's 'Mmm,' and 'Ohhh,' and 'Ahhh,' but they're pretty non-specific." 

"Mmmm," said Sheppard, twisting his arm into Rodney's touch. "Mmm-yummm."

"Right. 'Yum' works as well as anything, I suppose." Rodney had finished with Sheppard's left arm, so he moved up to the shoulder and chest area. Then he noticed something on his own hands and turned them up to the light. His palms were covered with tiny blue scales. "Huh. Carson wasn't kidding when he said you were 'moulting,' was he? I suppose I should use gloves for this." Rodney glanced uncertainly toward the supply shelf.

"Owww," Sheppard prompted, nudging Rodney's hand with his knuckles.

"Oh well," Rodney sighed, resuming the application. "It's probably okay. I don't have any cuts on my hand -- I have to keep track of that, you know, with all the chemicals I handle, sometimes. And I've never been bitten by an Iratus bug -- though, not for lack of trying, really. You know we walked into a whole nest full of those things? Well, of course you do, you were there. Although, I'm not sure you were entirely _there_ , if you know what I mean. I'm just saying, I hope you appreciate what we've done for you --"

"Yum," said Sheppard, bobbing his head.

Rodney paused. "Ah, yes. Well, good. You should appreciate it. Feel free to thank me with some chocolate -- later, I mean, when you're back to normal again." He finished liberally slathering stuff on Sheppard's right arm. "Okay, sit forward so I can reach your back."

Sheppard's back looked really odd: except for the top few inches it was mostly normal skin, with a ridge of blue scales growing down over his spine. Little spikes extended sideways over each rib, favoring Sheppard's right side more than the left. The armor petered out into a smattering of blue spots by the time it reached the small of Sheppard's back. Rodney rubbed gel onto anything that was discolored, especially at the edges of the hard chitin-like stuff. He imagined that must chafe, even if it mostly moved with Sheppard's body.

Then he had Sheppard lie back again so he could do the chest and belly. The little purring noises of appreciation that greeted his touch started to make him feel even more self-conscious. A dab of aloe rubbed shyly around one of those hard nipples made Sheppard arch and groan again. Rodney gulped and moved his ministrations further down Sheppard's belly, where there was still a smattering of body hair and normal-texture skin, even though the blue coloring reached all the way down Sheppard's right side to disappear into the waistband of his pants. 

This time when Sheppard arched into Rodney's touch, there was an unmistakable lift of his hips. At the same time, Rodney realized he was unthinkingly grinding his own erection into the edge of the bed. He pulled back sharply, trying to get himself under control. Sheppard gave him a reproachful look.

"Okay!" Rodney gasped. "Let's just get your shirt back on, and --"

"Owww," Sheppard said insistently.

"Yes, I'm sorry, but even aloe isn't going to fix everything. I did the best I could. I hope -- that is, I'm -- that's all I can do. I'm sorry." Rodney fumbled Sheppard's shirt back on hastily, trying not to touch him again -- which was absurd, since he had blue smears of Sheppard all over his hands. Then the restraints went back on (Sheppard pouted, but didn't resist), and then Rodney was done. "Right! Well, ah, time for me to go now. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"No," said Sheppard stubbornly.

Rodney ignored him and rushed out of the infirmary. It wasn't until he reached his room that he realized he had left his laptop behind (not a problem, since he had several others) and brought the bottle of aloe gel with him. He thumped the bottle down on his nightstand and headed for the bathroom to wash the blue-tinted goop off his hands. And maybe take a not-very-warm shower, while he was at it.

* * *

He lay awake a while that night thinking about his unusual reaction to Sheppard. Or, well, actually not that unusual -- he'd felt an attraction to the exasperating pilot since their first meeting. But up to now he'd always managed to keep it under control, keep it hidden, because he knew how that sort of advance was greeted by athletic, military, lady-killer types.

What was really strange was that he was _more_ attracted to Sheppard in his current condition. The bug-thing should have been disgusting, but mostly Rodney just found it fascinating. And just possibly it played into a few of the darker kinks that he knew were hidden deep down in his psyche. He didn't indulge that sort of thing, but he knew it was there because it popped up sometimes in his dreams or fantasies. There was just something about the idea of sex with not-quite-humans -- sex with robots, or aliens, or sentient animals, or whatever. There had been one really disturbing (and strangely hot) dream involving a Goa'uld . . . but that was neither here nor there.

Then there was Sheppard's semi-verbal semi-helplessness. He _needed_ Rodney. Needed someone to advocate for him with the nurses, and spend some time with him, and even comfort him. Normally that sort of thing wouldn't be Rodney's forte, but it seemed like no one else was stepping up to the plate just at the moment -- and, surprise! It turned out Rodney could be comforting too. Apparently his relationship with Sheppard really did go beyond petty insults and adolescent competitiveness and bonding over old science-fiction TV shows. And there was something really . . . encouraging, really liberating, about finding that out.

It all came down to Rodney being more vulnerable than usual to his attraction to Sheppard. There was nothing wrong in admitting that and accepting himself as he was. But he wasn't going to act on it, of course. It wouldn't be fair to Sheppard as he was now, unable to give fully informed consent. And it would be a death-blow to any future friendship between them, once Sheppard got back to normal. Rodney was supposed to be earning back the colonel's trust, not violating it beyond any hope of repair.

So Rodney knew what to do: admit his kinky side, accept it, and set it aside as inappropriate. It was something that just didn't belong in the real world.

But in the fantasy world, Rodney could imagine a very different ending to this evening's session in the infirmary. His eyes fluttered closed and his hand crept under the waistband of his boxers as he pictured some alternate uses for that aloe gel . . .

* * *

The next day, Rodney threw himself into his work. Not that he was avoiding Sheppard, or anything -- there wouldn't be much point to it, would there? He'd already decided not to be ashamed of his urges. Of course, it would be a lot easier to control those urges if he didn't have to spend time with the object of his fantasies, but that wasn't why he stayed away from the infirmary. He just had a lot to do that had been neglected for too long, as the incident with the desalination system proved. He spent most of the morning checking over that system and reinforcing his scathing condemnation of the scientists who'd been neglecting it.

He went over Optican's ideas with her, explaining in detail why rapid-fire phasing between the cloak and the shield would drain too much power from the ZPM, even assuming it didn't leave them semi-invisible and semi-protected. She insisted she could make both cloak and shield viable with only 20% more energy than the current scheme. He told her to prove the concept using a jumper's cloak/shield first, and offered to let her use the jumper recovered from Olesia if she would oversee the repairs. Then, of course, he had to check on the current state of those repairs, yell at the idiots who'd been farting around as if they'd never laid eyes on an Ancient scanner before, much less a puddlejumper, and dump responsibility for the stalled project in Optican's lap. Then he went in search of Zelenka to find out what else had been learned from the crashed Wraith dart that had culled him and Cadman.

It wasn't until Radek mentioned something about dinner that Rodney realized how much time had passed. It was coming up to the part of the day that he'd been spending with Sheppard lately.

He looked back at the display of Wraith symbols that were beginning to blur together before his eyes. "Oh. Well . . . this is important. Maybe, just for today, I should skip --"

"Rodney." Radek's lips were pressed together disapprovingly. "You are starting to tremble."

"Well, it's chilly in here!"

"It's nearly twenty degrees. You are not thinking properly."

Rodney drew himself up in indignation. "That is not true! I'm thinking just fine, thank you very much --"

"Your blood sugar is low. You need to eat, and the Colonel will be wondering where you are. We can discuss the translation of the technical terms tomorrow."

Radek was completely wrong about Rodney's brain function, of course, but it was true he was starting to feel a little peckish. Aside from the steady stream of coffee, he'd had nothing but a pastry for lunch, and breakfast was a long time ago. So Rodney went to the mess. He could always head back to his quarters afterward to go over those translations.

He found his teammates at dinner, looking more cheerful now that Sheppard was recovering, but still somewhat at a loss without his company. It would have been rude not to sit with them, so Rodney carried his tray over.

"McKay," Ronon acknowledged, eyeing Rodney's plates speculatively.

Rodney shifted to a chair closer to Teyla and strategically placed his iced tea -- with absolutely no lemon wedge, thank you -- to hinder any grabs from Ronon's direction.

"Dr. McKay," said Teyla with a warm smile. "I was hoping to have a chance to speak with you."

Rodney glanced up from his spaghetti. "Oh yeah?"

"A dear friend of mine, Charin, has requested my company. I will be spending several days on the mainland -- perhaps as much as a week."

"And, what, you need a pilot to take you?"

"No, I've arranged to travel with one of the regular supply flights. Ronon has expressed an interest in going with me."

Rodney checked quickly: Ronon was still lounging in his chair, and none of the food was missing except what Rodney had eaten himself. "Foe?" he said, then chewed and swallowed hastily. "So?"

"So . . ." Teyla continued slowly, "I wish to ask your opinion. Do you think Colonel Sheppard can do without our company for that length of time, or will it make him too anxious?"

"You're asking me?" No one had ever consulted Rodney about someone else's feelings before.

"I did speak to the Colonel about this plan when I saw him this morning, but he made no response that I could understand." Teyla glanced over at Ronon.

Ronon just shrugged. "Don't look at me. Sheppard doesn't seem too happy when I'm around. Think he's still mad that I shot him." The corner of his mouth twitched. "Twice."

Teyla turned back to Rodney. "Dr. Beckett has indicated that you seem to have a rapport with Colonel Sheppard, and Lieutenant Addams -- the night nurse -- says that the Colonel was actually speaking last night while you were present."

"Oh. Well." Rodney sat a little straighter. "I suppose it would be fair to say we have an understanding." Oops, too suggestive. "Or, or a connection, of sorts. I'm pretty sure he understands most of what we say to him."

Teyla nodded thoughtfully. "Then he will not be surprised, at least, when Ronon and I do not visit for the next few days. But I could not tell if the idea distressed him or not."

"Well, you know, I think it's pretty boring for him, being stuck in the infirmary all day. But I'm sure there are other people who could, you know, try to keep him amused." Rodney squirmed a little, remembering his own half-plan to avoid the infirmary tonight.

"Dr. Beckett thinks that the scratching will abate within a few days. He says, if the Colonel's mental function improves as well, he might be released to stay in his quarters then."

"Ah. That will probably help. He can read, listen to Johnny Cash, watch his own movies for a change." Like, for example, the modest collection of porn (disappointingly straight and vanilla) that Rodney had stumbled across on some of Sheppard's CDs when looking for ways to amuse him.

"So I thought." Teyla frowned. "I am looking forward to spending some time with Charin. But if you think Colonel Sheppard needs our company, I can postpone the trip."

"No, don't do that," Rodney said automatically in response to her wistful look. "We can keep him occupied, no problem. I've got some more movies lined up, you know. And maybe Major Lorne can assign some people to spend time with him." He considered a moment and added sourly, "Too bad Cadman's not back yet -- no one could be bored with her around."

Teyla smiled at that. "Thank you, Rodney. I am glad to know you will be there for Colonel Sheppard. Now I can visit Charin with my mind at ease."

Rodney gulped at this statement of faith. "Right. Yes. You, uh, do that." He turned back to his spaghetti, then frowned in consternation. "What happened to -- Ronon!"

The big man grinned around a mouthful of Rodney's garlic bread. "S'good stuff."

"That was the last good piece! All the rest were burnt!"

"I know." Ronon took a swig of iced tea -- Rodney's iced tea. "I'm still learning what's good or not, but you always get the best."

"Oh, so now you have _standards_? Other than 'food good, hunger bad?'"

Ronon laughed and clunked the empty glass down on the table. "See you later, McKay." And he followed Teyla out of the mess hall.

Rodney sighed as he finished off his dinner -- what was left of it, anyway. Avoiding Sheppard was obviously not going to work, not with Radek and Teyla and probably half the rest of the expedition conspiring to put them together. He'd just have to ignore his fantasies and keep his eyes above Sheppard's waist.

He still didn't head straight for the infirmary when his meal was done, though; he needed to stop by his quarters to pick out another movie. He'd originally lined up some old Star Trek episodes to watch next, but now he was thinking the unresolved sexual tension between the military leader and chief science officer might be too much for him. So Rodney had to consider what they could watch that would be reasonably enjoyable for himself and familiar to Sheppard, yet had no unfortunate subtext to make Rodney squirm.

Star Wars. The first one, of course -- the others were just elaborations on the theme, and except for Empire they all got progressively more ridiculous as Lucas lost all restraint. Rodney had a DVD of A New Hope around somewhere; he just had to find it.

He was rifling through the jewel cases on his desk when a prickling at the back of his neck made him stop. The same subliminal sense (well . . . and the sudden cessation of insect noises) had told him the Wraith was nearby, back on Ellia's planet. Carson hadn't picked up on it, and Rodney had been surprised to realize he was no longer the most bumbling, most clueless member of the party.

Now that same instinct was telling Rodney he wasn't alone in his quarters.

He spun around, reaching automatically for a sidearm he wasn't carrying. But there was no one else in the room that he could see. He stepped quickly and quietly to the entrance of the bathing alcove -- no one in there, either. He resisted the urge to check under the bed; there wasn't any room under there anyway. Shaking his head at the mistaken signal from his subconscious, Rodney turned back to the desk -- and froze: there was someone, or something, there in the darkness of the footwell.

Whatever-it-was shifted, and two golden spots gleamed in the shadow. "Rodney," said a hoarse, half-familiar voice. "Help."

Rodney staggered back to sit on the corner of the bed.

"Help," said Sheppard again.

Rodney forced his breathing to slow down, hoping his heart rate would follow suit. "Right. Okay. Just a minute." With a shaking hand, he activated his radio. "McKay to Beckett."

"Not now, Rodney, we've got an emergency here. Colonel Sheppard is --"

"Here," Rodney said.

"-- missing. We don't know how he got -- what did you say?"

"He's here, Carson, in my quarters."

Beckett heaved a sigh. "Oh, thank God. I'll send a couple of Marines round to --"

"No, don't bother. He's not causing any trouble," Rodney said quickly. The yellow eyes were fixed on his.

"What? Are ye sure, Rodney?"

"Yes, I'm sure. He probably just wants some time away from the infirmary. I can keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn't hurt himself."

The eyes blinked.

"Look, Rodney, he's getting better but he isn't quite all there just yet," said Carson uneasily.

"He's not going to hurt me," Rodney scoffed. "I think he just wants to be left alone for a while; I can do that. I mean -- that is, I'll be here, so he won't be _alone_ alone, but --"

"Aye, you're right that he hasn't been happy in the isolation room. But I expect ye to call me if there's any sign of --"

"Right away, no problem. Got it."

"I'll send the Marine tasked to guard him to stand outside your quarters, then. Just in case."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Oh sure, that will be a big help if something goes wrong."

Carson either didn't notice the sarcasm or didn't care to acknowledge it. "Good, then. I'll see to it."

Rodney sighed. "McKay out." He looked at the hunched form under his desk. "Okay, I fixed it so you can stay here. What do you want?"

"Rodney," Sheppard rasped.

"You remember my name, good." Rodney kept his tone cool, but a thread of warmth curled behind his breastbone at the thought that Sheppard recognized him, even when he could barely speak.

"Help?"

"With what? I got rid of the guards -- well, not rid of them, but they aren't going to drag you back to the infirmary, at least. What else?" 

Sheppard shifted back and forth, just visible in the doubled shadow under the desk. 

"Look, why don't you come out from under there? Oh. Here." Rodney frowned a little and thought the lights down low. "Is that better?"

Sheppard crept out slowly, head turning toward the door.

"They're not coming in here, and the lights are down. Is there something else?"

Sheppard's stance looked uncertain, even sheepish, and he shrugged his shoulders. Rodney couldn't recall him doing that before, in his bug frame of mind. He was definitely looking more human, although still not quite himself.

"I have, um, a movie picked out, if you want me to set that up?"

Sheppard brightened briefly, but then his shoulders hunched again and he extended his hand. It took Rodney a moment to realize he wasn't reaching for something, but instead holding the hand out for inspection. Rodney squinted down at the armored fingers.

"Is that -- wait, is that _blood_? You promised you wouldn't hurt yourself!"

"No scratch," Sheppard said solemnly.

"Oh great, you've stopped scratching yourself, but instead you've bitten your, um, fingernails to the quick and worse!"

"No scratch. No . . . claw. No scratch."

"Oh." Rodney bent closer to the curled hand, trying to see in the dim light. "Well, that almost makes sense, but is that claw stuff ready to come off yet? You can't just rip it free if it's still attached to you!"

"Help?"

"Huh?" Rodney straightened. "Why me? You could have stayed in the infirmary and gotten Carson to do it for you."

That was definitely a pout. "No straps."

"Oh, for -- you know he only did that to keep you from hurting yourself!"

Sheppard's head bobbed. "No scratch. No claw. Help." He bumped his knuckles against Rodney's chest confidently.

Rodney sighed. "All right, I'll see what I can do. But I'll have to turn up the lights -- no, wait. Come over here." He tugged Sheppard's hand toward the desk and the small lamp he used for delicate circuit work. "This is bright, but it won't fill the whole room."

Sheppard turned his head away as Rodney snapped on the lamp.

"You realize I promised to call Carson if you were hurting yourself." Rodney pulled the lamp and magnifying glass forward for a better look at Sheppard's blue hand.

"No straps." Sheppard was sure of his audience; he didn't even try to pull away.

"Hmmph." Rodney didn't want to admit it, but he probably wouldn't have the heart to turn Sheppard in, short of an outright suicide attempt. "Well, this isn't as bad as I thought at first. Raw, but not actually bleeding."

"Help?"

"Yes yes, I see your vocabulary still needs some work." Rodney rummaged through the clutter of tools on his desk for the grips and snips he used on some of the Ancient crystals. They were larger and stronger than his own nail clippers, but designed for fine-scale work. Cautiously, Rodney pried at the chitinous stuff where it started over Sheppard's knuckle, on a finger that wasn't looking too raw from the Colonel's own attempts.

"Ow," said Sheppard, but he didn't pull away.

"See? I told you it isn't ready to come off yet. It probably needs another couple of days."

"Help," Sheppard said firmly. "Yes help. Good help. Rodney help."

"Okay, that's clearly a vocabulary improvement if you're equating 'Rodney' with 'good.'" He tapped the tool cautiously on the end of Sheppard's wicked claw. Just as he'd thought; hollow inside. "All right, let me see if I can cut this."

It took some pressure, but the sharp end of the claw came off cleanly with no protest from Sheppard. Rodney angled the finger up to see into the open end, and caught a glimpse of pink (or at least a paler shade of lilac) skin inside. A little at a time, he trimmed the claw back to the level of the fingertip.

"I can't really tell if it's attached to your normal fingernail or just to the skin," he muttered while he worked. "If that means you're going to lose all your fingernails when this stuff peels off, then ouch." Satisfied that he'd trimmed that claw as much as he could without hurting Sheppard, he started on the next. "This is weird -- it looks like your fingers are fused together in pairs, but they aren't really, are they? I can get the tool in between them. It's more like they have to move together, isn't it?" He tried to pull Sheppard's index and middle fingers apart, but there was a murmur of protest when they were barely a centimeter apart. "Okay, okay, I guess your tendons or whatever need time to get back to normal, too." Rodney finished trimming the remaining claws, then picked up a fine rasp and filed down the edges. "There. No sharper than a regular human fingernail. You'll still have to _try_ to keep from scratching, but if you forget once or twice you won't rip yourself open."

Sheppard held his hand up and inspected it, then extended his left hand in its place. With a sigh, Rodney got to work on that one. The casing was thinner on this hand and cut far more easily. In fact, he found that it was almost ready to peel off. He tugged at the covering on Sheppard's little finger and came away with a curiously-shaped indigo shell. The finger underneath looked nearly normal, with the nail intact.

"Huh." Rodney studied the hollow claw over under the light. It was fascinating, but a little disgusting too -- like pulling off a really big scab in one piece, only pulling it off your friend instead of yourself.

The ring-finger claw came off as well, but Sheppard flinched when Rodney tried the others. He trimmed the ends back as he had done on the right hand, filed the edges down, then brushed all the little shavings into the trash. "All done."

With no special effort or struggle for balance, Sheppard lifted his foot onto the desk.

"Oh, you've _got_ to be kidding me. You escaped from the isolation room in the infirmary, evaded your guards, and came all the way to my quarters so I could _trim_ your _toenails_?"

"Okay," said Sheppard sweetly, but Rodney was certain he saw a glint of humor in the inhuman eyes.

Rodney grumbled, but turned his attention to the claws on Sheppard's toes. All of these were ready to peel off; Rodney did most of the work with a small pair of needle-nosed pliers. There was no good reason for him to be more squeamish about dealing with Sheppard's feet than his hands, but somehow it just seemed more personal.

"Supposed to be keeping my eyes above your waist," he muttered to himself, and then bit his lip, hoping that Sheppard hadn't heard or hadn't understood those particular words. The Colonel was obviously getting general meanings, but how much he could pick up of subtle implications was unclear.

"Rodney good help," said Sheppard.

"Yes, I've gathered you still remember how to manipulate me even with a five-word vocabulary. There! Are we done now? Can we watch the movie?"

Sheppard looked shifty. "Help?"

Rodney sighed. "With what! I've already given you the manicure and pedicure, now what do you want -- a mud bath?"

Sheppard bobbed his head. "Okay."

"That was a joke. I am not going to give you a mud bath. Got that? No bath."

"Ow."

"Ow? Ow what? I didn't hurt you, did I? Oh, hell. Carson will kill me. Or at least scold, in that really annoying Scottish way of his."

Sheppard frowned. "Ow . . . scratch. Itch." He rubbed at his chest through the somewhat grimy cotton shirt he was wearing. "Itch!"

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Oh, for -- I'm not going to scratch your itches for you! I gave you perfectly good blunt finger . . . claw . . . things, so you can scratch yourself. Carefully, that is!"

Sheppard's shoulders slumped, and the pout came out. His eyebrows, too, showed that they were more mobile than yesterday -- more like the regular Sheppard and less like a botoxed diva.

"What is that?" Rodney demanded. "You're not a puppy dog even when you're . . . well, ever. Stop trying to look like one."

Sheppard looked down and shuffled his feet.

"I don't know what you expect me to do about it, anyway. Scratching won't really make the itch go away, you know."

Sheppard looked up suddenly and darted around Rodney, still abnormally fast. A moment later he was back, holding the bottle of aloe gel that had been on Rodney's nightstand. "Yummm," he said.

Rodney took the bottle gingerly. "So this is your mud bath, huh?"

Sheppard nodded. "Rodney good help."

Rodney sighed, feeling a sense of inevitability. "Oh, all right. Better take your shirt off. And sit down on the bed so I can reach you."

Rodney's eyes were adapted to the low light now, and it was interesting to see how much Sheppard had changed since last night. The bumps on his neck and shoulder had subsided into little medallions on the skin, and the blue color was less pronounced almost everywhere. The scaly growths behind elbows and spine flaked away with a firm rub; Sheppard murmured "Yum" and bent forward to give better access to his back, which put his face right around Rodney's navel. Rodney gulped and hastily finished working on Sheppard's back, pressing him to sit straight so Rodney could do his chest next. The subtle swirling patterns of iridescence across Sheppard's pectorals were fainter but still visible, and Rodney was obscurely glad to see that the hard little cones over the nipples were still in place too.

When Rodney would have stopped at the lower belly, Sheppard said "Yum. Itch. Yum," and reached for the drawstring of his loose scrub pants.

"Oh, I don't think that's --" but Rodney was too late. His mouth went dry as Sheppard pulled down the pants with an artful wriggle of his hips and lay back on the bed. "Oh."

Jutting up between Sheppard's thighs was a sort of re-interpretation of the human penis. It was covered in interlocking rings of a deep cobalt blue that slid over each other to allow a telescoping motion -- Rodney could see it in action as the organ grew taller under his gaze. The head was cased in a wicked-looking helmet, so dark it was almost black, where a foreskin should have been.

Rodney suspected that the reality of sex with a partner so endowed would be complicated at best, and pretty painful at worst. That didn't stop his mind from presenting him with a number of implausible scenarios, or his own dick from poking at his boxers to try to measure itself against the enhanced version.

"Um." He licked at dry lips. "I, uh . . ."

Sheppard looked up at him with an odd sly expression, gold eyes gleaming and nearly round-pupiled in the soft light. "Rodney good help." 

"I . . . what?" 

With one blunt-clawed hand, Sheppard pried at the base of his erection. "Help."

Rodney stiffened indignantly. "Oh, I am _not_ going to use a heavy-duty cutter to trim your -- your . . ."

Sheppard's hand moved higher in a manner common to every man. "Yum."

"That . . . ohhh." Rodney couldn't tear his eyes away, and he found he'd moved closer without intending to.

"Rodney, help."

It was a bad idea -- a terrible idea, in fact; Rodney knew that, but he couldn't quite remember why it mattered. His hand was reaching out without conscious volition. "Okay," he said weakly. "Let me, um, have a look."

_Clinical,_ he told himself. _Professional. Just a guy helping out a friend._ But his hand wasn't listening to that order either; it stroked once delicately from base to tip, then took a firm grip around the shaft.

Sheppard groaned and lifted his hips.

The armor was more supple than it looked, not really chitinous at all. Rodney forced his hand move to the first ring at the base and pulled gently as Sheppard had done. It seemed loose in the sense that it wasn't attached to the skin beneath, but it was tight around the engorged organ. The sheath as a whole would not pull up off of Sheppard's penis, but Rodney couldn't tell if that was because some part of it was still attached or because it wouldn't fit over the broad head.

"I think, uh . . . I think you're going to have to lose this erection before it can come off."

Sheppard nodded, his eyes on Rodney's hand which continued its traitorous stroking. "Okay. Rodney goooood help."

"You're really going to hate me for this once you're back in your right mind, you realize that?"

Sheppard raised his hips again, pushing against Rodney's palm. "Yummm."

_Oh, God._ "Well, just . . . remember that you asked for it, all right? Or better yet, forget about the whole thing."

Rodney gave his hand license to do what it wanted, and brought the other hand up to join in the act. Sheppard encouraged him with groans and hot little gasps as Rodney moved his hands up and down, shifting the flexible rings against the skin beneath.

Sheppard gave a small wince as Rodney gripped too hard or moved something the wrong way.

"Wait, wait -- here." Rodney grabbed the bottle of aloe and spread the slippery goop over the sheath, trying to get it in between so it would reach the skin. The overlapping plates did seem to move more easily, and Sheppard pushed into his grip with renewed interested.

"Move forward a little," Rodney instructed, grabbing Sheppard's hips and pulling him to the edge of the bed. He nudged the other man's knee apart and crouched down in between.

This was really hot, Rodney's brain insisted. Kneeling to suck off a half-mutated John Sheppard, sprawled out over his bed as ultra-cool as ever -- even his fantasies weren't usually this hot. He nudged his own erection against Sheppard's shin as he bent down.

Sheppard's dick tasted mostly normal, like others Rodney had had his mouth around, but with something sweeter added in. Rodney didn't know if that was Sheppard himself or the bug, but he liked the taste. He tried to take more in his mouth, but it turned out the aloe gel he'd smeared lower down didn't taste so good. So he confined his oral attentions to the head and its surprisingly flexible helmet. He could feel Sheppard's pulse under his tongue, even through the layers of armor -- and Sheppard could feel his tongue, too, if the noises he was making were any indication.

Rodney probed carefully at the slit where new growth gave way to normal flesh, and Sheppard's groans ratcheted up a notch. Happy with the discovery, Rodney switched off between sucking and tonguing, still massaging the shaft with both hands. Sheppard's cries grew sharper and louder, incorporating something that might have been Rodney's name. Rodney reached one hand up to rub and pinch the little blue cone of a nipple, startled when it pulled free in his fingers. Sheppard shouted at that, grabbing Rodney's arm in a painful grip and moving it to the second nipple. This one didn't pull off, and Rodney went back to his sucking routine while he rubbed. Sheppard's moaning built to a sharp pitch, and suddenly he was pushing hard at Rodney's shoulders, heaving, the shaft in Rodney's hands pumping out long pulses of hot liquid.

Sheppard's semen was sort of . . . well, orange. Rodney blinked in surprise at the drops that had landed on his hand. He was tempted to taste it, but it was probably a good idea _not_ to share bodily fluids with the man with multiple retroviruses coursing through his body. Rodney should be grateful Sheppard had pushed him off at the end . . .

Sheppard was still pushing, and then pulling, at Rodney's shoulders. He was too strong to resist, which just turned Rodney on even more. Sheppard urged Rodney up on the bed beside him and tackled his fly.

"Oh," said Rodney, a new surge of arousal rushing through him. "You don't have to . . . oh." He had a moment to be glad Sheppard's teeth hadn't mutated, and then he was thrusting into wet perfect heat, making noises that ought to be embarrassing but were actually pretty hot, stuttering over Sheppard's name (was it okay to call him John?) and then he was coming so hard that he lost track of the world for a while.

* * *

Rodney's door chimed when he was four-fifths of the way through his morning routine. He checked his radio automatically -- why hadn't whoever-it-was just called him? Maybe they'd tried while he was in the shower. Pulling his shirt straight, Rodney went to the door.

"Oh!"

It was Sheppard, holding a laptop with some stuff piled on top of it.

"Colonel! Uh . . ." Rodney looked around nervously, but of course there was nothing incriminating in the room, and Sheppard had seen it before, anyway. "Do you want to come in?"

They'd been avoiding each other ever since Rodney woke up with his sheets smeared in blue scales and orange semen, to find himself alone. There was a discarded sheath of interlocking blue rings on the bedside table, which was somehow just the capstone to the entire bizarre experience. Rodney had confirmed that Sheppard returned safely to the infirmary, had dropped off some movies to keep the man amused, then washed his hands of the whole affair.

After all, what could you say to a guy who talked you into sex against your better judgment and then skipped out, leaving behind an unmentionable (almost indescribable) body part as a souvenir?

Sheppard hadn't sought Rodney out either in the last couple of weeks, which made Rodney think he hadn't done their friendship any favors by giving into Sheppard's demands. If Duranda had all but killed the Colonel's trust in him, this must have been the nail in the coffin.

But here was Sheppard now, looking almost entirely human and not especially angry. "I, uh, brought back your movies and music and stuff. Thanks a lot -- I really needed something to keep my mind occupied." He gave a little self-deprecating grin. "Otherwise I might have gotten ahead of schedule in War and Peace."

"Oh. Good. Some of the movies were donated by other people, you know. I'll just, uh, make sure they get them back." Rodney set the laptop and disks on his nightstand, checking redundantly to make sure his little souvenir was out of sight.

Sheppard stood just inside the doorway, looking uncomfortable. "There's, um. A chocolate bar there, too. Since you said that would be a way to thank you."

Rodney had to think for a minute before he remembered saying that, while Sheppard was still in the infirmary. "Oh!" God, if Sheppard had understood and remembered _that_ from when he couldn't even speak, what else did he remember? But he wouldn't be giving Rodney chocolate if he were angry, surely. Baffled, Rodney changed the subject. "You're looking, um, pretty good? I mean, with the, uh . . ." He waved at the right side of his own neck, mirroring the only patch of blue he could see on Sheppard's body.

"Yeah, it's just that and a little bit on my arm." Sheppard turned his wrist up to show Rodney another scaly area inside his elbow. "Doc says I should be cleared for missions in a week or so, and meanwhile I can start catching up on my paperwork."

"Oh. That's -- good, I suppose." Rodney knew Sheppard avoided paperwork like the plague.

"Right. So, uh, I was wondering . . ."

"Mm-hmm?"

"You busy today?"

"Well, I have some simulations to . . ." Rodney caught himself. If Sheppard wanted him to do something, something that might repair their friendship, Rodney could find any time he needed. "Nothing that can't wait. Why?"

"Well, my ATA gene seems to be pretty much back to normal. I wanted to try out some moves in a puddlejumper, but Beckett says I should have another pilot along, just in case."

"Oh. You want to give me another flying lesson?" It was a euphemism for a barrage of friendly insults, but Rodney's flying had been improving, slowly.

"Actually, I was thinking about that thing you wanted to check out. An Ancient research station on the second moon?"

"Oh!" Rodney's interest was kindled. "It's probably just a sensor array, not a full station, but if we can get it going it will boost our subspace range --"

"All right then, what are we waiting for?"

Rodney blinked. "We can do that today?" He started scrambling for his mission gear. He wouldn't need a full tac vest, but his data tablet and some tools would come in handy . . .

"Sure, why not? I figure maybe on the way, we can try turning off the artificial gravity for a little while."

"Gravity? Wait, why --"

"Hey, you got a lot of pockets there. You can carry this stuff." Sheppard tucked a couple of square packets into Rodney's vest.

Condoms. And a small tube of personal lubricant.

"What the -- what's this for?"

Sheppard shrugged and gave his most appealing grin. "I've always wanted to try sex in zero gee."

Rodney was left standing in the doorway of his quarters, vest half-on and half-off, mouth flapping uselessly.

"Well?" said Sheppard from halfway along the hall. "You coming, or not?"

Rodney ran.


End file.
